Exceptional
by SweeneyOCD98
Summary: AU. Sherlock is a psychic, forced to stay in his room at a facility. John is his psychiatrist. Romance blossoms. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Hooray for bad titles! I want to thank SakuraMoriChan for giving me this prompt. If you like _Hetalia, _go read her stories!**

**This was a one-shot that got out of control, so I split it into two long-ass chapters.**

**Just to be clear, when I use the word "psychic" in this story, it indicates someone who can read thoughts. It doesn't have to do with those people who predict you future with a crystal ball or some shit.**

**Well, enjoy!~**

* * *

Psychics are to be feared. That was what every ignorant parent told their child. The majority of the population considered them freaks of nature. When the existence of psychics was discovered hundreds of years ago, they were accused of witchcraft and inevitably stoned to death. Some believed them to be conjuring the power of Satan—the usual irrational religious accusations. As of the mid 20th century, things had gotten more humane, although the hatred of psychics had not really died down. Psychics were allowed to live, but must be away from society and "normal" people in a facility where they were to be studied and cared for. There were doctors to care for any physical ailments, but also psychiatrists to help the psychics cope with their situation. Psychics of the lowest level were allowed to leave the facility occasionally to visit their families. But as for the stronger psychics, they were only allowed to leave for three days for Christmas (with authorized personnel, of course). However, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, the most powerful psychic of them all, he was never allowed to leave.

John Watson had been excited to start working at the facility. He always found the psychics to be interesting, if not a little intimidating. While he was a licensed medical doctor, what he really wanted to do was help the psychics cope. So, after he was discharged from the army with a scar on his shoulder and a limp in his leg, he became a licensed psychiatrist and applied for a job. He started working in the month of July and gained the approval of coworkers and patients alike before the summer ended. The psychics liked John because they could tell that he felt genuine sympathy for them. That could not be said about the majority of the doctors there.

John liked the facility itself, too. It had a warm, welcoming feel and it was obvious that the purpose of the place was to make the psychics feel as normal as possible. There was a library, televisions in every room, a lovely garden, and the food in the cafeteria really wasn't that bad.

Another good thing was that the facility was only twenty minutes away from his flat by car. For John, the job was almost perfect.

Almost.

* * *

In late February, John was called to his boss', Gregory Lestrade's, office. John entered the room with a nervous smile.

"Is something wrong, sir?" he asked.

"Not at all, Dr. Watson," the older man with silver hair said warmly. "Take a seat," he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. John sat down. "Now," Lestrade sat up straight in his chair, "I've got a special assignment for you. Normally, I wouldn't let you near this bloke for years, but you seem pretty damn good at your job."

John smiled at the compliment, his nerves disappearing. "Who is it?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said. "Probably the most powerful psychic anyone's ever seen. He's only twenty-eight years old and can tell you what you were thinking ten minutes ago from anywhere in the building."

John was immediately intrigued. "The most powerful? How come I've never heard of him before this?"

"Oh, you must have. It's just that no one really calls him by his name."

"What do they call him?"

"A variety of things—_freak, psycho_—things of that nature," he said uncomfortably.

Well, that was unexpected. Everyone working at the facility had been very tolerant of the psychics so far.

"Why is he called that?" John asked.

Lestrade looked troubled. "He's just very…odd, and intimidating."

"Intimidating? _You _find him intimidating?"

Lestrade got a little defensive with that. "Well, yeah! The man could tell you your entire life story in a minute!" He took a breath and calmed. "Look, John, he's not easy to work with. It's not just that his power is immense; he's cold and arrogant as well. I've called you here because I think you can handle him. Do you accept?"

And of course, John said, "Yes."

"I can't believe Lestrade is letting you near that thing," Sally Donovan said to John as she and Philip Anderson escorted John to his new patient's room.

"Thing?" John frowned. "You mean Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yep."

"It's a good thing they've got him locked up in here," Anderson piped up beside them. "He's a real psychopath. Ask anyone in this building and they'll agree."

"Even Lestrade?"

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Lestrade doesn't want to admit he feels the same way. He's too nice to directly call the Freak a freak."

John had not really talked to Donovan and Anderson before, and now he was wishing to get out of their presence as quickly as possible.

"You've been around Holmes?"

"Oh, yeah. Sadly, we're stuck with the job of taking care of him—changing his sheets, doing his laundry—being his maids, basically."

"We're warning you, John," said Anderson, "don't let that psychopath get to you."

John smiled tightly. "I think I can handle it."

John was led to a room on the top floor of the building at the very end of the hallway. Donovan opened the door and called, "Oi, try not to scare this one away, will you? We like him." She turned to John, "Good luck." She left with Anderson.

John entered the room and saw a young man sitting Indian-style on a bed with his fingers in a steeple under his chin like a praying-mantis, his eyes closed. If he heard John come in, he didn't show any signs of it. His dark, curly hair was a little messy and his white T-shirt clung to his thin chest. John turned his eyes away from his new patient and noticed how incredibly dull the room was. The walls, floor, and ceiling were gray, the white sheets a sharp contrast to the rest of the room. There was no television. There was a small wooden chair in the middle of the room intended for John. There was a small beside table. The blinds to the window were shut.

John quietly shut the door behind him and cleared his throat.

Still no acknowledgement.

"Mr. Holmes?"

After a beat of silence, his patient spoke, "You're new."

"Yes."

"You've not even been here for a year."

"Yes."

"What brings an ex-soldier with a psychosomatic limp, alcoholic sister, dead parents, and an incompetent therapist to me?"

John took a second to process that. Lestrade wasn't kidding about his abilities, then. Most psychics could only hear a person's immediate thoughts, not dig into memories. He should have been angry. He should have been offended. He was impressed.

"I like to help people. I started working here and Lestrade assigned me to you. There's your answer."

He saw the young man's lip twitch. "Just sit down. Your leg is bothering you, isn't it?"

John sat down without responding, resting his cane on the side of the chair. "Now, Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock."

"Okay, Sherlock, you obviously know why I'm here-"

"Yes, you feel the need to help people after going through traumatic experiences during your military service in Afghanistan. Boring."

John clenched his left hand, then forced it to relax. Okay, that was rude.

"Boring? You find my traumatic experiences boring?"

"Predictable. Typical."

John breathed through his nose deeply. Now he was starting to understand-

"You now understand why I'm hated, yes?"

That caught John off guard. "I-"

"Don't try to lie to me because it won't work. I can hear the gears of your brain grinding and struggling to form a coherent thought."

Now John was angry. "I'm just trying to help you!"  
"And you're failing."

John seriously considered punching the arsehole in the face. He felt his blood boil and his hands shake.

"Before you pop a blood vessel, I suggest you leave," the cold baritone cut through the air.

Before he was about to assault his patient and lose his job, John stomped out of the room, limp and cane forgotten. During that whole exchange, Sherlock had not opened his eyes once. _Not even worth his time, _John thought bitterly.

* * *

John was in no mood for Donovan and Anderson's I-told-you-so's the next day. In fact, he wanted to punch them. He wanted to punch everyone. He hadn't really cooled down at all since the day before.

"John," Lestrade called after him as he was about to leave the cafeteria.

"Yes?"

His boss looked guilty. "I tried to warn you how Sherlock is. He can be…"

"An insufferable sod?"

"Yes."

John sighed. "Listen, I appreciate you seeing worth in me and assigning me to him, but I don't think I could help him. I don't think anyone could help him."

"Are you positive?"

"He didn't even _look _at me, Lestrade!" John let his anger show.

"Oh, that's not uncommon. He says there isn't any point in looking at the person when he can hear their, and I quote, 'nauseatingly dull thoughts.'"

"Charming," John muttered.

"Give him one more try, John. The other patients tell me how much they like you; maybe you could break Sherlock's shell."

John sighed deeply. "I doubt that, but fine."

When John made it to the top floor, he heard shouting coming from Sherlock's room. He quickened his pace and peeked inside of the room.

"You're just being insensitive, Holmes!" Anderson shouted.

Sherlock's eyes were open in a fierce glower. "Insensitive? You act like what you're doing is right!"

"It's none of your business!"

"Excuse me," John said loudly, grabbing both of their attentions. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Anderson said angrily. "Thank god you're here. Lestrade told me to watch over him until you came. I'm out," he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

John looked to Sherlock for an explanation.

"I asked him why he's cheating on his wife with Donovan when his wife is the best woman he is ever going to get," Sherlock said with disgust.

"Anderson and Donovan?" John gaped. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Does Donovan know he has a wife?"

"Yes."

John suddenly felt a lot lesser for the coworkers he already disliked. Sherlock smirked, "I see your leg is cured, Doctor."

John had no idea what he was talking about. "What?"

"Your leg. Your limp. Have you even noticed you left your cane here?' To prove his point, Sherlock reached under his bed and held it out to John.

John took it and stared at it dumbly in his hands. He then realized that his leg felt fine. _Well shit. _"I hadn't noticed," he whispered to himself.

"I know."

"My leg doesn't hurt."

"Right."

"My limp was psychosomatic."

"Evidently."

"It's gone because I had gotten so angry with you."

Sherlock seemed pleased with himself. "Yep."

John stared at him with a dazed expression for a few moments, and then broke down into giggles. Sherlock looked surprised, his light eyes blinking. "What's so funny?" he demanded.

"Nothing," John chuckled. "Just. My limp was cured because of you being an arse. Wow."

Sherlock's lip twitched into somewhat of a grin. "I suppose so."

Now that the dick finally had his eyes open, John found them to be quite lovely, in a strange sort of way. Were they blue? Gray? Green? "I suppose I should thank you."

"There's no need. Sit, Doctor Watson. And before you ask, yes, I know your name."  
"How?" he sat down.

"I read your name-tag."

Well, John felt like an idiot. "Oh."

Sherlock perched himself on the edge of his bed. "So, what will you ask me? About my childhood? How people found out I'm a psychic? How I _feel?" _the words fell harshly from his lips.

"No, no, and no."

Sherlock seemed a little surprised. "Well, what are you going to ask?"

John pondered for a moment. "Why is your room so dreary?"

Sherlock's eyes scanned his room and he shrugged. "It's always been like this. Are other rooms not like this?"

Something was off about that. "Have you not been to other rooms?"

"Only the lavatory and showers. I went to the library a few times, but that was years ago."

"What?" That seemed a little hard to believe. "Why?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "That isn't your concern."

"Well, since knowing things about you is a part of my bloody job, I think it is."

Sherlock huffed and stared at the wall.

"You do realize that we have," John checked his watch, "fifty-two more minutes together. It would go a lot quicker if you just told me."

"Or," Sherlock's lips curled into a grin that reminded John of the Grinch, "I could just sit here and say nothing while you hopelessly try to talk to me."

"And why would you do that?"

Sherlock was silent.  
John rolled his eyes. "Are you serious?"

Silence.

"This is childish."

Silence.

"Oh, you're a right piece of work, aren't you?"

Silence followed by the Grinch-like grin widening.

John scowled and, after eighteen minutes of silence, left the room for the day, groaning at the fact that Sherlock won. At least for now.

"That's the most he's ever told anyone," John's coworker, Mary, said.

John liked Mary. She was easy to talk to, kind, and, if he were being honest with himself, pretty.

"It's not like he told me much. He just implied that he doesn't leave his room except for necessity."

"Still!" she insisted. "He never says _anything _about himself."

John didn't find that hard to believe. "How long has Sherlock been here?"

"Oh, I don't know. He's been here since I started working here. I don't think anyone really knows, to be honest. He is sort of mysterious."

"What about Lestrade? Doesn't he have Sherlock's file or something?"

"I haven't really thought about asking. I don't think Lestrade would tell me, either. He almost seems protective of him."

"I got that vibe from him."

"You know, I like him."

"Who, Lestrade?"

"No, Sherlock," she laughed.

John stared at her in amazement. "You like _Sherlock? _Have you ever interacted with him?"

"Oh, yeah. I have to give him his yearly vaccinations. Viruses come from outside—us—and they still need to be protected, you know."

"Yeah, I know," John nodded. "I can't imagine he enjoys that."

"He does, actually. He likes to watch the needle go into his skin."

John grimaced. It always freaked him out when patients did that.

"I think," Mary continued, "that's why he tolerates my presence; I give him something interesting to watch."

John thought about this. "He must be bored up there."

"Wouldn't you be?"

"You've got quite a reputation," John said to Sherlock. "It's like you're a legend within this place. Everyone knows your name and has at least one experience with you."

"I've noticed." Sherlock was in the same position as the day before, smiling smugly.

"People warned me to stay away from you."

"I know." Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to stare intensely at John. "You should listen to them."

"You think so?"

"Yes, because, John Watson, no matter how much you may think otherwise," his voice lowered dangerously, "you will not get close to me. You will not 'break my shell.' You will fail."

John wasn't very intimidated. "Whatever you say, Sherlock."

That only irritated him.

The next week was a tedious hell. Sherlock was just as unpleasant as the day they met. But now John was interested in Sherlock, not just because he was a challenge, but because, well, he was interesting.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock demanded about six days after they met. "I insulted you on the first day, so much so that you left angrily."

"I remember that, yes."

"I refused to speak on the second day and you left angrily again."

"Yep."

"I'm an arse to you."

"Correct."  
"So, I'll ask you again: why are you still here?" There was legitimate confusion beneath Sherlock's anger and annoyance, John observed.

"Can't you tell?" John smirked.

Sherlock glared. "You're interested in me, yes, but why?"

John shrugged. "You're interesting."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and decided not to talk for the rest of the day.

While Sherlock stopped demanding why John was still trying to work with him, he remained difficult and unapproachable for the next few days. Sherlock would briefly talk to John, make some snarky comment about how John was wasting his time, and then shut himself off for the rest of their session. Some days he looked at John, some days he didn't. It depended on the level of darkness in his mood. It was entirely childish. Sherlock would usually smirk during his silent spells, reveling in his temporary victory.

On the twelfth day after their first meeting, Sherlock growled, "Stop coming here."

John was getting sick of this. "Why?"

"You won't get anything out of me because I don't _want _or _need_ your help," Sherlock's eyes shot daggers into John. "Yes, I spend all of my time in this room. No, I am not bothered by it. Yes, everyone here hates me. No, I do not care about what those dunces think of me. Stop. Coming. Here."

He very much reminded John of a 6 year-old. "You do realize that your efforts to scare me off aren't working, right? You can stop acting like a child and cooperate anytime."

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered and rolled over in the bed so John was facing his back. "You should really be attending to your alcoholic sister instead of me."

"Trying to get me angry again, are we? That's original."

Sherlock flipped over and leaned forward on the edge of the bed, his face a few inches away from John's, and John certainly did _not _gulp. "You. Repel. Me."

When John walked into the room the next day, Sherlock's first words were, "You really should decline your sister's invitation to dinner. She'll only get drunk on wine and the night will end up with you two arguing, a usual, with nothing solved." He looked proud of himself.

"Are you trying to tell me something I don't know?" John smiled tightly. "Also, nice try, but you haven't offended me enough to stop working with you."

Sherlock grumbled and refused to speak another word.

John was exasperated not deterred. He was determined to crack the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. He knew that Sherlock could not have started out such an insufferable twat. Or, maybe he did, but he was definitely lying when he said that his situation didn't bother him at all. John knew that much, (also, the arrogant man held a charm that John couldn't quite explain and kept beckoning him back, but he wouldn't admit that).

"I have an idea," John announced two weeks after his and Sherlock's first meeting.

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his eyes closed that day.

"There are things about me that you don't know, but can't figure out on your own, right? Things that even you can't read because it's far from my mind."

"Yes?" he drawled in a bored tone.

"Then I'll make you a deal: I tell you something about myself, you tell me something about yourself."

"Why would I want to know anything about you?"

"Because you're bored and this is the most excitement you're going to get."

Sherlock scowled. He opened his odd eyes and sat up in the bed. "Is it like quid pro quo?"

"Precisely."

"Isn't that a reference from _The Silence of the Lambs?"_

"Do you like _The Silence of the Lambs?"_

Sherlock nodded. "I like a good murder."

"Did you watch the movie or read the book?"

He stared at John with an _I-can't-believe-you-just-asked-that_ look. "How many movies do you think I see?"

"My mistake, so you've read the book."

"I'm allowed to have books sometimes. Usually Lestrade gives them to me." He clapped his hands together. "All right, my turn."

"Wait, I haven't even asked you anything!"

"You asked if I like _The Silence of the Lambs_. That was a question."

John's lip twitched. "That didn't count!"

"I say it does. Now tell me, _John,_" he made sure to emphasize the use of his first name, "Do you like the violin?"

John looked at him blankly. "What?"

"The violin. Do you like it?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess. Why?"

"I like it, too," he said simply.

John waited for Sherlock to elaborate on why he asked that, but he didn't. _What an odd man…_

"I heard that."

When John looked back to Sherlock, he was surprised to find his gaze slightly playful. John smiled. "Sorry, but that was a really random question."

"Were you expecting me to ask you a deep personal question?"

"Yes, actually."

"I don't need to."

"Why not?"

Sherlock's eyes lost their humor, his gaze turning unnervingly sharp. "Because I know all of that already."

John shifted in his chair. Well, that was downright uncomfortable.

Sherlock's progress was very slow, but it was definitely there since John made the deal with him. John discovered that the psychic was only truly intrigued by books. "I can't read the minds of fictional people," he explained, "so I love the mystery."

John found that strangely sweet. "What authors do you like?"

"I haven't read too much, but I like anything having to do with horror and/or mystery."

"No fantasy?"

Sherlock made a disgusted face. "Fantasy is childish."

"I like it."

"Not surprising."

John wasn't sure if that were an insult. "You said you can have books sometimes. Do you not have them all the time?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Punishment," Sherlock muttered. "I haven't read a book in three months."

"Punishment for what?"

"Tripping Anderson."

John snorted. "Nice." A question had been nagging him for a while now and he figure that now was as good a time as any to ask. "If you can't read, what do you do all day in this room with nothing to do?

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "I've got something to occupy my thoughts."

"And what is that?"

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, then said, "Nothing that would interest you."

John went out on a date with Mary. They had a nice time (though John wished they had gone a little further) and agreed to go out again next Saturday.

Sherlock refused to look at or speak to John the next day.

Sherlock was sitting Indian-style when John came in a couple of days later.

"You're late today," he opened an eye and scanned John up and down.

"I am," he said. "Sorry, I just…I wanted to give you something."

Sherlock was fully alert now and saw that John was holding something behind his back.

"You're nervous," Sherlock said.

John just nodded.

Sherlock then looked surprised. "You…got me books?"

"I knew I couldn't hide anything from you," John smiled ruefully, "but yes."

He held out a few books he had picked up downstairs. "I signed them out of the library. I got thing categorized under 'Horror' or 'Mystery,' like you said you liked."

Sherlock took the books and stared at them in his hands with wide eyes. He placed all but one down. He held _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _in his hands and ran his long fingers over the cover.

"You didn't have to get me these," Sherlock told him quietly.

"I know. I wanted to. Figured it would occupy you a little."

While it would take him years to admit it, Sherlock was thankful. John could see it from the look on his face. His eyes were still wide and he held the book in his hands like it was a precious gem.

"If you think you'll be in trouble for having them," John said, "say I gave them to you."

But Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was on the third page of the book. John, for the first time, felt fondness bloom in his chest. Sherlock once again seemed like a little kid, but not due to his mood and tantrums, but because of his wonder. "I'll just leave you to it, then," John said mostly to himself and he left for the day.

Sherlock had little habits that John was starting to pick up on. He would absentmindedly run his fingers over his full lips when in thought, run his hand through his messy curls when he was tired or grumpy, and curl in on himself when he was about to sulk.

John wasn't getting any more personal information from Sherlock, but they did talk. John would ask about the book Sherlock was reading, he would answer, go on about whatever analysis and theory he concocted of the story, and then he would ask John something. Sherlock always asked the oddest questions like, "Do you take bubble baths?" or, "Why do you have arguments with inanimate objects?"

Another one of Sherlock's quirks was that he, apparently, slept naked. John came in a little earlier one day because he finished his lunch early. When he entered the room, Sherlock picked his head up from his pillow and yawned, his curls a mess. "You're early," he observed in a rough voice.

"I am," he said. "Sorry, is that a problem?"

"I suppose not." When he sat up the sheet fell to reveal his pale chest.

John swallowed. "Er, Sherlock, you're not wearing a shirt."

Sherlock looked thoroughly unimpressed. "And here I thought you were unobservant…"

"All right!" John cut him off. "But, why? Are you even wearing pants?"

"No," he ran a hand through his curls in an attempt to tame them.

"Why not?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I find clothes tedious at times."

John laughed at the utter ridiculousness of it all and Sherlock chuckled lightly after a moment.

John found that he had to tear his gaze away from Sherlock's surprisingly toned chest.

"You're wondering why I have any muscle definition."

John nodded, slightly embarrassed.

"When I'm not reading or thinking, I do pushups. It's better than doing nothing."

"Right," John looked at the wall and cleared his throat. "So, I shouldn't come early, yeah? Wouldn't want to walk in on you undressing or whatever." John hoped he didn't sound as flustered as he felt.

Sherlock simply said, "Oh, don't worry, I wouldn't mind that."

"He's an odd one," John said to Mary, "but absolutely fascinating. I mean, even aside from his power, he's just amazing. He's an arse, but extremely intelligent and pretty funny, too, if you get to know him."

There was a snort behind him. It was Donovan. "You think you know him?"

"Better than you," John glared at her.

One of the janitors decided to rudely step into the conversation. "Sounds like you've got a crush, Watson," he mocked loud enough for half of the room to hear.

John's face turned scarlet. "I…what? No, I'm not gay, firstly, and secondly, that would be entirely unprofessional."

"Oh yeah, did you even hear yourself just now? 'He's just amazing!'" Anderson teased in a voice that was supposed to sound similar to John's (but it really didn't).

Everyone except Mary laughed at him. The burning in John's cheeks intensified. _A crush on Sherlock? No._

"You're troubled," Sherlock said immediately when John walked into the room that day.

"It's nothing," he looked down as he shut the door behind him.

"You should know by now that you can't lie to me, John," his voice held a light tease.

John said nothing, knowing anything he said would give him away faster.

"What's wrong, John?"

_Can't you tell? _John didn't even bother to voice his question; he knew Sherlock could hear.

Sherlock got up from his bed for the first time since John had known him and took a few languid steps toward his doctor. _Fuck, he's tall, _John thoughtas he looked up to meet Sherlock's sharp gaze. He was at least 5 inches taller. John could feel the heat radiating off Sherlock's lean body. John backed up against the door and tried to close off his thoughts, if that were even possible. They spent a moment staring into each other's eyes, Sherlock searching and John trying not to shudder due to their proximity. John would be lying if he denied being entranced by the mixture of color in his patient's light eyes.

Then, Sherlock looked surprised and he took a few steps back. "You think I'm…amazing?"

John felt the heat of embarrassment rise to his ears, but nodded. "Well, yeah, genius. You're quite extraordinary and not just for your power." There was no use in lying.

Sherlock's pale cheeks donned an adorable shade of pink. "Oh," he said quietly. He sat back down on his bed and stared into space. A little voice in John's head was telling him that Sherlock didn't receive too many compliments.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

No response.

"Don't start sulking now, Sherlock Holmes."

That got his attention. "I do not sulk," he seemed offended by the thought.

"Sure you don't," John smiled good-naturedly.

Sherlock still seemed a little troubled. "You said it's not just my power that you find amazing."

"Which is true."

"I know it is. But, why?" he looked genuinely confused. "Without my power, I am nothing."

_Now we're getting somewhere. _"Whoever told you that is full of shit, Sherlock."

Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest and rested his head there. John, now sensing a pattern, asked, "Are you done talking for the day?" Sherlock nodded. "All right, I won't push you," he patted him on the shoulder, noting how the muscle tensed beneath his touch.

John nearly skipped down the hallway in glee; he was _finally _getting somewhere.

* * *

The following day was the first time John saw Sherlock nervous. He was fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt. "There was something you did yesterday…"

John tilted his head slightly in confusion. "Yeah? What was it?"

Sherlock stared at the bunched the fabric in his hand. "Yesterday, you patted me on the shoulder."

"Yes, should I not have?" Crap, had Sherlock overstepped his physical boundaries with Sherlock? They hadn't touched beforehand, and he certainly hoped that he hadn't creeped Sherlock out…

Sherlock's head snapped up. "No! I mean, well, it was fine…"

John wasn't really following. "Okay, so you liked me patting your shoulder?"

Sherlock's cheeks were pink. "Forget it."

"No, no, you brought it up…Are you saying that you want me to do it again?"

"No, it's just been a while…"

"Since what?"

"Since anyone's touched me aside from medical purposes."

Oh, fuck.

"Sherlock," John's sympathetic tone made Sherlock scowl, "how long?"

"Oh, I don't know. Years. I've lost count," he said in forced nonchalance.

John understood his silent question, "Hey, I don't mind doing it again."

Sherlock stared back at John with widened eyes, then hesitantly nodded. "Do not speak a word of this to anyone," he added sharply.

"Why would I? What happens in this room stays in this room. Isn't very professional of me to talk about what we say and do, is it?"

"That doesn't stop everyone," Sherlock muttered.

John had to admit that the situation was a bit awkward. Actually, more than a bit, but that wasn't going to faze him much. Sherlock was beginning to open up to him. He couldn't throw it all away just because of a little awkward physical contact. He walked over to Sherlock and they stared at each other. He didn't know what to do for a few moments, but settled on clasping his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and rubbing small circles into the fabric of the T-shirt with his thumb.

And Sherlock, being so unaccustomed to the touch of another human being, felt as if he were going to melt like butter. The reaction was unexpected in a not entirely unpleasant way. He let out a sigh and relished in the warmth and comfort that was John Watson. He rested his head on John's stomach, the beige jumper soft against his cheek.

John was silently praying that no one was planning to come in. That would be difficult to explain:_ well, you see, Sherlock is just so starved of physical contact that I, his doctor, decided to give it to him._

"John," Sherlock spoke softly, "stop worrying."

"Can you blame me?"

"I suppose not. Just—don't stop yet."

In the past, John had dealt with melancholy psychics, but this was downright heartbreaking, even though Sherlock was trying his best to make John not feel sorry for him. John was resisting the urge to feel those messy curls between his fingers.

"I hear you feeling sorry for me," Sherlock sounded slightly offended.

John only apologized and didn't let go.

There was a sharp knock at the door which caused the men to quickly jump away from each other.

Mrs. Hudson, one of the cooks, entered with a tray of food. "Oh, sorry, dears," she gave the tray to Sherlock, "I didn't know you would still be in here, John."

John liked Mrs. Hudson. She gave food to all of the patients and often shared pastries with the doctors. Her scones were always delicious and she was like a motherly figure to everyone in the facility. She also had a soft spot for Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled warmly, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

When Mrs. Hudson left, John turned to Sherlock, "You're an arse to everyone in this bloody place, but you're polite to Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course, she's one of the only people I tolerate here." They locked eyes and then broke into giggles, Sherlock's rich voice resonating in the small room. John wished he could hear that laughter more often.

"I'm going to go for today," John told him. "Stay out of trouble."

Sherlock, looking genuinely happy, said, "Of course, John."

The touching didn't stop there. John would make sure to touch Sherlock at least once before he left for the next few days (Sherlock was secretly appreciative every time). He would fondly pat him on the back or shoulder, not wanting to do anything else in fear of crossing some boundary and making Sherlock snap on him.

Shortly after the touching began, John decided to call things off with Mary. It wasn't fair to her, really, when he was imagining kissing cupid's bow lips while with her.

Ah, yes. That was another thing. John was becoming more and more attracted to his patient by the minute. Not a very professional thing, you see. He could not help but be hypnotized by Sherlock's eyes (which were now always opened and staring at him), how enticing his curls were for his eager fingers, his inviting, pink lips…

Of course, hiding these thoughts from Sherlock was becoming increasingly difficult. Whenever any of this popped into John's head, he immediately squashed them. He was surprised that it was working. If Sherlock noticed his inappropriate thoughts, he didn't say.

Mary smiled sadly when John broke up with her and said, "I understand, John. It's obvious your heart is somewhere else."

He bit his lip. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only to me," she smiled a tad wider, "because I think I know your type." Her smile took on a more devious quality. "There is something rather dangerous about him, isn't there?"

Before John could form a coherent response, Mary had walked away and was talking to someone else as if nothing happened.

John was getting a nickname around the facility: The Tamer. According to the others that had to deal with Sherlock, he was becoming increasingly tolerable, which could only be attributed to the influence of the kind doctor. Or, that's what everyone said. John wasn't so sure. One of the idiots, Dimmock, said that John had "tamed the beast", and everyone seemed to think that was the funniest thing in the world and laughed about it for days. Thus, John became The Tamer. Not the most creative of names, John thought.

Sherlock commented on the new nickname. "Uncreative and juvenile. Have they really nothing better to do than sit around and create _nicknames?" _

"I guess not," John smirked. "Though, you are much more pleasant than when I first started visiting you."

Sherlock hummed and in a voice that dripped like dark chocolate asked, "Am I now pleasing you, Doctor?"

That was an awful choice of wording. The word "pleasing" combined with the voice made out of sex and his recently growing feelings invoked an image in John's head of Sherlock's perfect lips around his cock. Shit.

Sherlock sat up. "What are you thinking?"

Fuckfuckfuckfuckityfuck. "You tell me." He tried to keep his voice calm.

"Something sexual. I can't tell what. You're suppressing it. Why is it working?"

"I dunno. Perhaps you're losing your touch."

Sherlock growled and leapt from the bed to stand over John, placing his hands on the armrests of the wooden chair and bending down so closely that their noses were barely brushing. "This isn't the first time your mind has wandered like this," he accused in a low voice.

John gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Sherlock continued, "You think such filthy thoughts sometimes. You immediately suppress, effectively disabling me to see who it is you're thinking about. Who is it? Mary Morstan?"

The proximity and heat of Sherlock's breath on John's face shot straight to his cock. John nearly shivered. "Mary?" he managed to ask.

"You get on with her, don't you? No…you've decided to remain friends..." He squinted. "Stop making your mind blank. I'm trying to figure out why."

"How do you know about Mary?"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock dismissed. "Tell me, John," he said with a twinge of bitterness, "who is it that stimulates you?"

"You really don't want to know."

"I do."

"Why does it matter?"

"It just _does." _His eyes grew darker. "The wall you've built is crumbling, John. I'm going to find out as soon as your thoughts slip."

Seeing that the stubborn jackass was not about to relent, John's brain frantically searched for a way out his predicament.

Sherlock, of course, immediately picked up on it. "Don't try to distract-!"

Sherlock's words were cut off when John abruptly stood up and pulled him into his arms. John felt Sherlock freeze. He forced his mind to go blank. He thought of a peaceful meadow with rabbits hopping along.

They stood there in the gray room for what felt like an eternity, the only sounds coming from outside of the room were distant footsteps.

"Really, John?" Sherlock laughed weakly—bitterly—after a moment. "Using my lack of human contact to your advantage to distract me? I thought you were better than that."

John took a deep breath, "You must be able to tell that isn't the only reason I'm doing this."

After a pregnant pause, Sherlock observed, "A part of you genuinely wanted to do this."

John nodded.

After a beat or two of silence, Sherlock sagged in the embrace and wrapped his arms around John, resting his forehead on his shoulder. John nearly jumped out of his skin. John couldn't believe just how warm he was; he felt like a bloody heater.

He felt lips brush the shell of his ear. "You want to...touch me in this way," Sherlock sounded a little dazed.

That was one of the most awkwardly-phrased sentences John had ever heard.

"Mhm."

Sherlock was slightly tense in is arms. "You're always asking me questions…Know how long it's been since someone has done this?"

"How long?"

Arms tightened around him. "Fifteen years."

"Sherlock!" John pulled back enough to see his face. "You can't be serious!"

The look on Sherlock's face said it all: there was no way in hell that he was joking. "Tell me about it, Sherlock. Please," he insisted when Sherlock averted his gaze, "do you trust me?"

Sherlock looked back to him. "More than anyone. I don't know why, but I do."

"Then tell me."

Sherlock was silent for a few moments. He lowered his head back onto John's shoulder and said, "My mother is a psychic, as is my older brother, Mycroft. She taught my brother and me from a young age to hide our powers. She never wanted us to end up here, understandably."

"Was your father a psychic?" asked John.

Sherlock shook his head against John's shoulder. "No, but he sees nothing wrong with us. I was able to keep it all hidden until I was thirteen."

"What happened then?"

He felt Sherlock's fingers curl into fists and he spoke quickly.

"There was a boy at my school, James Moriarty. He was a psychic, too, and saw right through me. He wanted me to join him in ganging up on other kids we disliked. I didn't want to. His thoughts were far too…sinister for my taste. He told the teacher about my power. They brought me to the principal's office and questioned me. I denied it, but I slipped and told the principal that he shouldn't take out his frustrations regarding his suppressed homosexual desires on his students."

John chuckled at that, which vibrated pleasantly through Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled a little and said, "It was that small mistake that brought me here. I was allowed to hug my parents goodbye. They cried."

"What about your brother?"

Sherlock laughed sourly. "He didn't even want to look at me. He thought I was an idiot for slipping. I suppose he started to feel guilt for not saying goodbye, however, because he occasionally sends me letters."

"You get letters?"

"They're under my bed. It's the only connection I have to the outside world."

"Do you send any back?"

"Sometimes."

Something seemed off about Sherlock's story. "That boy, Moriarty? Why wasn't he ever found out?"

"He never slipped. I tried to tell the principal about his abilities, but after my accusation, he wouldn't listen to me."

John squeezed Sherlock tightly. "You do realize that's the saddest story I've ever heard?"

"Yes, I heard it before you spoke."

"Then you know what I say is sincere."

"Yes," Sherlock's voice softened, "you're always very sincere. However, there's no need to feel sad. I got over it years ago. "

John thought he was going to have a heart attack when Sherlock shifted to fucking _inhale_ his scent and give a contented "hmmm." John was confident Sherlock could feel his heart hammering wildly. He had to know what he was doing, right?

The alarm on John's watch beeped to signal the end of his shift. Sherlock frowned and broke the embrace. "You'll be going, then."

"Yes," John cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sherlock looked a little flushed. "John, you won't tell anyone about my mother being a psychic, will you? I don't care if you tell others about my brother. Actually, I do. I don't want him here with me."

John chuckled, "Of course not."

Sherlock averted his gaze. "What you did for me, that was…good."

"Uh," John cleared his throat again, "yeah. Anytime, Sherlock."

That night, John had his first wet dream of Sherlock Holmes.

Donovan and Anderson had been eyeing John suspiciously for a little while now. John ignored it until Donovan approached him. "You've been spending a lot of time with the psycho."

"You mean _Sherlock?_ Yes, he is my patient, so I should be spending time with him. It happens to be my job."

"No one's ever spent this much time with him," Anderson said. "He's driven everyone away within a week. You've been with him for, what, three months?"

"Yeah, so? He finds my company tolerable, I guess," John began to walk away.

"Oh, I think he finds you more than tolerable," he heard Donovan say.

John knew he shouldn't have engaged with her, but curiosity got the better of him. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," she smirked, "except that yesterday when I went to his room, he referred to you as _my John_."

A few days later, John started to fidget in the old, rigid wooden chair in the middle of Sherlock's room.

Sherlock noticed this. "Chair hurting your back?"

John nodded and groaned a little when he sat up to stretch. "That thing has got to be at least twenty years old," he complained. "Christ, I feel like an old man."

"You can sit here if you want," Sherlock offered meekly.

John saw the tips of his ears turning pink. "You're asking if I want to join you?"

"Forget it," Sherlock rolled over to sulk.

"No! I mean, uh, I would like that. My back hurts and, yeah."

Sherlock slowly sat up. "Well, don't just stand there. Sit before I change my mind."

John awkwardly sat on the bed. It was softer than he expected.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It will do nothing for your back if you don't lie down."

"Oof!" In an instant John found himself on his back with Sherlock hovering over him. Sherlock didn't seem to find anything awkward with the situation. "Back better?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah."

"Good."

Sherlock then began to talk about pirates as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. John couldn't help but smile.

John and Sherlock were lying side by side on the bed and staring up at the ceiling, only their sides touching. They hadn't talked in about ten minutes. John was hoping that Sherlock was enjoying the closeness, though he was the one who suggested it.

John broke the comfortable silence. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I understand that your powers are the greatest here, but why can't you leave your room? You're not dangerous."

Sherlock smirked. "That's not what people think. When I first got here, I was so bored that I performed experiments in the kitchen after everyone went to bed. One turned out to be…explosive."

"Seriously?" John gaped.

"Seriously."

"Still," John's brows furrowed, "that's not enough to send you to your room for life, is it?"

"No, you're right. There's more."

"Well," John propped his head up and stared down at Sherlock, "I'm listening."

Sherlock's gaze didn't leave the ceiling, but he did speak. "Do you know of a patient by the name of Victor Trevor?"

"I've never had to treat him, but yeah. I hear nothing but good things about him."

Sherlock's hands momentarily clenched into fists. "That doesn't surprise me. He acts so politely that everyone treats him like a king. It helps, of course, that his family is loaded and pays boatloads to this place to make sure he is comfortable. Arguably, this place would not be as nice as it is if it weren't for him."

"Really?"

"Yes. You don't think the government pays much for this place, do you?"

John supposed not.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Trevor is my nemesis."

"That seems a little dramatic, Sherlock…"

"Well, it's true!" he snapped. "Are you going to let me tell you the story or not?"

"You're right, I'm sorry. Continue."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "He was the only patient I found to be tolerable. His power and intelligence does not match mine, but is better than most. He wasn't dull. We talked. We got sort of close."

"What happened between you two, then?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip, "He wanted to be…more than friends."

"Did you not want to?"

"I wasn't sure," he admitted. "I told him that I would give it a try. I wanted to experiment."

John couldn't suppress a twinge of jealousy.

"But after a little while, I decided that it wasn't for me."

"Why not?"

He fidgeted a bit on the mattress. "It was too distracting, the sensations. I felt like I was losing control and that was unacceptable. He didn't take no for an answer. Things got ugly after that. I can hear you worrying."

"You seem so nonchalant about it," John couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "That bastard."

Sherlock shrugged. "Anyway, he tried to touch me again and I refused. He didn't rape me, if that's what's worrying you. He got violent and told everyone I fell down a flight of stairs."

"No idiot would believe that."

"You'd be surprised."

"Wait, seriously?"

"I was already disliked, remember. Those who didn't believe him didn't care enough to do anything about it. I wasn't horribly injured."

"How injured were you?"

Sherlock rolled over to face the wall. "A black eye, split lip, few bruises, nothing major."

John's fists were shaking with anger.

"But he wasn't finished," he said. "As an act of revenge, he went to the boss at that time—it wasn't Lestrade—and complained that it was _I _who tried to molest _him."_

John felt like his gut was in knots.

"He also said," Sherlock's voice had a smidgen of hatred, "that if I were not locked away, his family would stop funding this place. You can figure out the rest."

John's whole body was shaking. That was the reason why Sherlock had to be locked away like he was a monster. All because of a rich, horny prick. If he ever encountered the man who attempted to harm this beautiful man—

Sherlock sat up and looked down at John with eyes the size of dinner plates.

John propped himself up on his elbows. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Sherlock swallowed and his breathing quickened. "You…" He blinked rapidly. "You think," he swallowed again.

John was totally lost.

"You think I'm….beautiful?"

FUCK. Fuck. Shit. Why, out of all thoughts John had been thinking, did Sherlock have to hear that? Though, considering the more inappropriate thoughts that floated through John's mind over the past three and a half months, it could have been a lot worse.

Since it was understood that there was no use lying, John said, "I do," with a curt nod.

Sherlock looked like he was either about to faint or dart to the door. Instead, he said, "I've always considered myself rather attractive-"

"You're correct then, you conceited arse."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "However, many words have been used by others to describe me, but never that one."

John frowned. "I've guessed as much."

Sherlock got up from the bed and began to pace the room with his hands behind his back. Seeing Sherlock out of bed wasn't a common sight. His limbs were so long a graceful.

Sherlock's head snapped back to John. "I heard that."

John was sure his heart was about to leap out of his throat. "No point in hiding it now," he scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"I don't understand," Sherlock moved about the room like an animal in a cage. "Why? Why me? Why not Mary? She isn't dull. She's interesting and attractive by societal standards and…"

John sat up, "And?"

Sherlock stopped, his back facing John. "A suitable mate in every sense. Wait," he turned back to John, "you stopped going out with her because…because of me?"

John sighed heavily. "Yes."

"When you were kissing her…" He swallowed. "Oh…"

John wanted to die right then and there. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I really am. I never wanted you to find out about my, er, feelings."

"All of those times you were thinking of something dirty…"

"Yes."

"It was…"

"Yes."

"Me?"

"Yes, Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned around again to face the door.

"Look," John got up from the bed, "I'm sorry, I really am, but I can't help how I feel. However," he cleared his throat, "I still want to be your doctor, if you want me to. We're friends, aren't we, and I don't want to ruin that because of my feelings." Hell, this was humiliating.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. The hands behind his back unfolded and his arms fell by his sides. "I just want to know why you're interested."

_No going back now. _"Because you're incredible. Your power intimidates me, amazes me, fascinates me. You may be a dick sometimes—scratch that, a lot of times—but there's more to you. I know there is. I've seen it. You're charming and funny and, God, I can't even begin to describe how handsome you are."

John was sure that his entire face was the color of blood red roses. It felt like someone lit his cheeks and neck on fire. He hadn't felt this humiliated when admitting his feelings since adolescence.

"All of what you said is true to you," Sherlock said quietly.

"I wouldn't lie to you."

"I know that."

They stood in unbearable silence.

John cleared his throat. "I suppose I should go…"

"John," Sherlock sounded desperate, "no. I…I don't know how…how to do this sort of thing, but I think I want to."

"What sort of thing?"

He saw Sherlock's back rise and fall with a deep breath. "Return sentiment and engage in romantic interactions."

_Romantic…oh! Oh! _"Sher-?"

"Yes, I feel the same," Sherlock grumbled. "Happy now?"

A wonderful explosion of shock and glee exploded in John's chest. His heart hammering in his chest was now a pleasant sensation. He hesitantly stepped forward. "May I touch you?'

Sherlock nodded curtly.

John gently wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock tensed and let out a quivering breath.

John stood on his toes to reach his ear, "Do you want this, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am!"

John chuckled. "All right, all right. Quid pro quo, Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"You just told me not five minutes ago that you didn't like being in a relationship, that the sensations were overwhelming. How would I be any different?"

John could see a red tinge to Sherlock's cheekbones. "You're just _John._"

John was about to say that that didn't make any sense when Sherlock spoke again, "You're the first person to treat me like a human being in years. You're patient, kind, understanding, and overall the best man I've ever had to pleasure to know." He grinned. "Plus, you're not too bad on the eyes."

John laughed.

"I may be hesitant with some physical aspects of our arrangement," Sherlock admitted.

"That's fine," John said and squeezed him tighter. "I'm not totally confident, either, with you being the first bloke I've ever had. You know, I got the impression that you hated me for months, but what you just told me goes against that."

"I lashed out because I didn't want anyone to get close to me. You're an exception."

"Well, as long as it's all sorted out in that brain of yours now. Thank you, Sherlock, for what you said about me. That was very nice."

"I wasn't being nice," he corrected, "just truthful."

_How sweet. _

Sherlock elbowed him in the ribs not hard enough to hurt. "I am _not _sweet!"

"Anything you say, Sherlock," he murmured and placed a chaste kiss to the back of the long, pale neck, right below the curl at his nape.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose. "John…"

"You haven't really done much in this area, have you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"How much have you done?"

Sherlock finally turned around in the embrace to face him. "Some kissing, a little bit of stroking. He made me orgasm once with his hand. That's about it," he looked everywhere but John's eyes.

"It's all fine," John assured. "I just wanted to know."

Sherlock's light eyes had no traces of their usual severity. He was open, vulnerable, and a tiny bit frightened. John gently cupped his cheek. Sherlock's face was warm. "Is this okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

A knock on the door followed by a "yoo-hoo!" made the two jump apart. It was Mrs. Hudson with a tray of food.

"You're still here, John?" she set the tray down on Sherlock's bedside table.

"Yeah," he looked at his watch, "my shift ends in two minutes, actually."

"Then I'll leave you two for your last two minutes." She pointed a finger at Sherlock. "I expect you to eat that dinner, young man." She stared at him for a moment, then reached up and rested the back of her hand against Sherlock's forehead. "Are you getting sick, dear? Your face is all flushed and you seem a little warm."

John held his hand over his mouth to muffle his giggles.

"I'm sure Nurse Morstan will take care of you. Want me to call her, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

"Eat and get some rest." Before she left, she turned to John, "You better take care of him. I swear, for such a smart man he sure neglects his health."

"I'll take care of him just fine, Mrs. Hudson," he grinned.

Sherlock looked like he wanted to murder him.

"Good," she beamed and left the room.

John nodded to the tray of food. "You heard her. Eat."

Sherlock grumbled and stuffed a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

John's alarm on his watch beeped. "That's my cue, then."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise.

John took a long stride forward, dropped a kiss onto Sherlock's curls and stepped back, grinning. "See you tomorrow."

It took all of his strength not to burst into laughter at the sight of Sherlock's shocked face, his mouth hanging open (still filled with potatoes) and eyes wide.

"I think he's broken," Mrs. Hudson commented to John the next day.

"Broken? Who?"

"Sherlock! I went to bring him his breakfast this morning and he was just staring into space. I don't think he even noticed I came in. His dinner only had a scoop of mashed potatoes missing, too."

"Well, that's not too uncommon," he said.

"Oh, but it's not just that, love. It was the look on his face. Usually he looks so thoughtful when he's in a trance like that. But today, well, he looked surprised about something."

John fought his smirk. "Did you try to get his attention?"

"Of course." He waved her hands in an exasperated manner. "Nothing."

John opened the door to Sherlock's room to be met with a sight that exactly fit Mrs. Hudson's description.

"Afternoon," John greeted and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock blinked. "John," he sounded startled. "Why are you back?"

John raised an eyebrow. "I always come at 1:15 in the afternoon."

"Impossible. You just left."

"No, I was gone for the whole rest of the day and this morning."

Sherlock noticed the breakfast tray next to him, untouched. "Ah. That seems to be the case."

"Did you just sit there the whole time I was gone?"

"Evidently. I was thinking. I suppose I got lost in my thoughts."

"For over twenty hours?"

"It happens."

John laughed. "You're a madman, you know that?"

Sherlock grinned.

John pointed to the tray. "Eat."

"I ate yesterday."

"Yeah, a spoonful of mashed potatoes. That's not enough."

Sherlock pouted, his full lower lip protruding, then gave in and started to nibble on the toast given to him.

John sat on the bed next to Sherlock. He felt like a nervous teenager again. Should he attempt to touch Sherlock? To mention what happened between them? Would Sherlock want to talk about it?

"Stop thinking so loudly," Sherlock grumbled through bites of toast. "I suppose we should talk about it, yes? That's what people do, isn't it?"

"They do," John agreed. "Considering our situation, I think talking about it is pretty important."

"Our situation?"

"That I'm your doctor and you're my patient."

"Oh. Right. That can be problematic."

"That's an understatement."

Sherlock finished his toast and folded his legs up on the bed. "We've been in questionable positions before and nothing happened."

"That doesn't mean anything."

Sherlock sighed. "We can hear if someone is about to open the door. Also, I can hear the thoughts of people walking down the hallway."

"Wait, really?"

Sherlock nodded. "I can hear everyone's thoughts from everywhere in the building, John."

"Don't you get sick of it?"

"It has its advantages, but gives me headaches constantly. I can hear dreams, too, so I don't get much relief unless I'm asleep."

John frowned. "Is your head hurting now?"

"Yep," his lips popped around the 'p' sound.

"Wait, if you can hear everyone, why didn't you warn me that Mrs. Hudson was about to come in yesterday?"

"I was distracted. I didn't hear her thoughts in time."

"Oh yeah?" John grinned cheekily. "Why were you distracted?"

Sherlock crossed his arms, "Don't tease, John."

"It's all with good humor, Sherlock," he placed his hand on Sherlock's knee. "Do you mind?" his eyes darted to his hand.

"I don't mind," Sherlock said, although his lips tightened when John gave his knee a light squeeze.

"In this scenario," his voice lowered, "I don't trust your brain. We need to lock the door somehow."

"Use the chair," said Sherlock slightly breathlessly.

John got up and wedged the wooden chair under the doorknob as a makeshift lock (the patients' doors could only be locked from the outside and were locked by the staff at night).

John sat back on the bed across from Sherlock. "I don't want you to be overwhelmed."

"I trust you."

John leaned forward and stopped a few centimeters away from Sherlock's lips. "What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock hated feeling so uncertain, so vulnerable that a part of him wanted to push John away and hide in his sheet. But this was _John. _He couldn't do that to John, especially when he wanted him so badly…

"Kiss me," he said suddenly.

John smiled nervously and licked his lips. "All right."

He gently grasped the back of Sherlock's neck with his right hand. They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, anxious, and John brushed their lips together, no pressure and barely there. He heard Sherlock inhale deeply. John kept his lips still, waiting for Sherlock to take the lead. Then, Sherlock fully pressed his lips against John's. John sighed when he discovered that the delectable cupid's-bow were as soft as rose petals.

He deepened the kiss and clasped his left hand with Sherlock's. He gently ran over Sherlock's knuckles with his thumb and Sherlock made a tiny happy noise. His lips were soft and deliciously full and god, John found himself getting lost in them.

They briefly parted for air and molded their lips together again. They spent a few moments familiarizing the touch of each other's mouths before John gently sucked Sherlock's plump bottom lip. He felt Sherlock shudder and grab his forearms. John broke the kiss and rested his forehead against Sherlock's.

"Did you like that?"

Sherlock's eyes were unfocused and his lips were delightfully pink. John wanted to take a picture.

"That was nice," Sherlock said dazedly. "My mind was blank."

"Is that a good thing?"

"Very."

John smiled. "I feel a bit smug. I, John Watson, managed to make Sherlock Holmes' brilliant mind blank. I feel like I should get a trophy for that."

Sherlock lightly smacked John's bicep. "Shut up." He tugged on John's sleeve. "Again."

John was happy to comply. Sherlock moved his hand to John's graying blond hair and tugged lightly. John suppressed a moan and Sherlock tilted his head in an attempt to deepen the kiss.

John lightly nibbled on Sherlock's bottom lip and moved his hand to his hair, finally petting the soft curls and mimicking Sherlock's earlier action by tugging at the curls by his nape. Sherlock made a small groan which shot straight to John's cock. _Keep it together, John. _

The tip of Sherlock's tongue, to John's surprise, gently traced his upper lip. John allowed entrance immediately. Sherlock only explored John's mouth briefly due to lack of expertise and when they pulled apart, he sat back on his heels and had a goofy smile on his face.

"What?" John smiled, too.

"I like kissing you."

"You don't feel overwhelmed?"

"Only a little. I like the blankness."

"Do you not hear other thoughts when I'm kissing you?"

"Surprisingly, no." He frowned slightly. "It's coming back already."

"Come here," John held his arms out.

Sherlock looked unsure of himself, but crawled into John's lap all the same and rested his head in the crook of John's neck.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and used his left hand to pet the dark chocolate curls.

"Not sure if this will help you," John admitted, "but I guess it can't hurt."

Sherlock made a low, rumbling sound in his throat and nuzzled John's neck.

"I feel like a teenager," John said, "kissing in secrecy."

"What, with Sarah Sawyer?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes. I won't ask how you know that. Shall I tell you the story or do you know it all already?"

"Tell me."

"We were around sixteen and she was my girlfriend. She was pretty. We were in her bedroom and I wasn't going to take it any further than kissing, mind you, but her dad caught us and I was never allowed to see her again."

"You were quite fond of her."

John could have sworn that there was a hint of jealousy in his voice. "I was. But, I mean, I haven't seen her in around fifteen years. Any feelings I had disappeared a while ago."

That seemed to make Sherlock feel better. "Are you bisexual?"

"I suppose. Well, I don't know. I always liked girls before. Does it matter?"

"Not at all."

"What are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Disinterested."

John didn't follow. "Asexual?"

"Not exactly. I've always found men more physically appealing, but I never considered acting on my low libido until Trevor." He smiled. "You're jealous that he got to kiss me before you."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes and kissed him.

* * *

**Drama in the next chapter (not too much, though). So, yeah. **

**Please continue to the second half of this story!**


	2. Chapter 2

**There will be sex in this chapter, but I assure you it is nothing too graphic. If graphic sex is your cup of tea, then I apologize.**

* * *

John insisted that they should take their relationship slowly in fear of overwhelming Sherlock.

Sherlock understood, but he desperately wanted to run his hands all over John's body, to thoroughly explore him, and vice-versa.

Four days had passed since their first kiss and all they had done since then was more kissing, just on the lips, and a little bit of hugging. "It's never wise to rush into these things," John had said.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked in exasperation. "It's not like we're two strangers who met at a bar. We've known each other for months now."

"I know," John ran his hand through the wild curls (an action, he's discovering, that Sherlock adores). "Trust me on this one, okay?"

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to his neck in response. "What exactly does 'taking it slowly' mean? What can we not do?"

"Sex," he said. "No sex."

"Ever?"

"Well, not ever. Actually, that depends. Do you want to?"

Sherlock shifted a little so his face was hidden in John's neck. "I don't know," he mumbled. "I suppose I might one day. But now…I'm not sure."

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"But you're a sexual man, aren't you? Don't you want to do things?"

"Having an orgasm isn't worth hurting you, Sherlock."

If Sherlock's face were not hidden, John would have seen the blush that graced his pale cheeks.

It became apparent that while Sherlock wasn't ready for sex, he wanted to do more and was frustrated by his lack of knowledge on the subject of physical affection. John found it endearing and Sherlock glared at him for it.

"Don't be that way, Sherlock. I'm not mocking you." John lightly nipped Sherlock's jaw and moved down to his neck.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pulled them down on the bed, putting himself on his back with John hovering above him. John sucked on the sensitive skin and smiled when Sherlock gasped. He bit down and Sherlock, to his surprise, cried out.

"Shhh," John ran his hand over Sherlock's chest. "You'll alert the entire floor."

Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, lips clamped tightly. "Did anyone hear?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head. "Stop for today?"

Sherlock nodded. He noted that sex was fine in theory, but a lot to handle in practice.

* * *

In the four months of John and Sherlock's arrangement, it had bothered John day and night that Sherlock was not allowed to leave his room except for using the lavatory and to shower. He remembered the awful story regarding dick-bag Victor Trevor. While Sherlock would never admit it, John knew he wanted to get out of there. There must have been some way.

"Please, Lestrade," John pleaded, "you and I both know that he's not dangerous."

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. "John, I know. I do. And I know that he's made a lot of progress since your arrival, which I really have to commend you for."

"See? Progress! He may insult some of the patients and staff, but he won't hurt anyone. I think it'll do him well to get out of that room."

Lestrade sighed heavily. "I agree with you, John. But without the Trevor family's wealth, this place would look like crap."

John laughed bitterly. "You're willing to treat one of your patients like a prisoner for money? I thought this place was supposed to be a haven for people like him."

Lestrade slammed his hand on his desk, "Look, there's nothing I can do about it! I don't think it's right, but we need the money." He lowered the volume of his voice. "I'm sorry. Really. But if Trevor sees Sherlock out of his room, we're screwed. You know as well as I that the government's least concern is the wellbeing of these people."

Anger boiled in John's veins. His Sherlock was to live a life in solitude all because of money? No. He was not going to tolerate it.

An idea struck. "What if we let Sherlock out when Trevor isn't around?"

"And then have a staff member accidentally let him know?"

"How would they do that?"

"If anyone even thinks about Sherlock being out of his room when they're around Trevor, he'd find out."

"What if only a handful of people know and those people aren't those who treat him?"

Lestrade thought it over. "I suppose it could work. We would have to monitor Trevor's schedule closely in order to do this."

"Does anyone know his schedule?"

"I'll ask around. I know he likes to be in the library a lot. I'll consider, John, but I can't make any promises."

"You're giving him a chance. That's all I'm asking."

"There's another problem," Lestrade said. "The other patients will see Sherlock and might tell him. What then?"

Crap. He hadn't thought of that. "Don't all patients have to be in their rooms by 9:00 with their doors locked?"

"Yes."

"Can't Sherlock be let out then? He doesn't get much sleep, anyway."

"Okay," Lestrade relented. "Okay, that could work. But John, I would really like you to monitor him during that time. "I'm not saying that he's going to do anything bad, but it'll make me and the rest of the staff feel better."

"Who are you going to tell about this?"

"I'll only tell Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, and Donovan, since they care for Sherlock during the day and don't deal with Trevor. No one else has to know."

"You trust Anderson and Donovan not to tell anyone?"

"They'll lose their jobs if they do."

That sounded fine, but there was another thing. John certainly didn't mind spending more time with Sherlock, but, "I get here at 10:00 in the morning. If I stay at night, I would be staying here over twelve hours."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "Okay, you stay with Sherlock while he's out of his room and I'll change your hours to 9:00 until whenever Sherlock feels like going back to his room. Deal?"

John smiled in triumph. "Deal."

"Jeez," Lestrade sighed for what seemed like the fifteenth time during the whole exchange, "you're lucky I like you and Sherlock or else I wouldn't be putting up with any of this crap."

* * *

"Sherlock," John was smiling brightly.

Sherlock was reading _The Turn of the Screw. _"Hm?" he didn't look away from the pages. Sherlock loved that story. He had been telling John about its intriguing ambiguity the day before.

"I've got something to tell you."

"Busy."

John sighed. "Put the book down, you prick."

Sherlock didn't listen.

John huffed and snatched the book from his hands. "Listen," he said sternly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but gave John his full attention. He then cocked his head to the side, "I can leave here?"

"I wanted to tell you," John frowned.

"You did. Your mind did. Lestrade arranged it. And-"

"Let me tell you, okay?"

Sherlock stopped talking.

"I went to Lestrade and he agreed that you should be able to leave your room for purposes other than necessity. So, all patients have to be in their rooms by 9:00 at night, right? Well, you can go anywhere in this place after everyone goes to their rooms, at least until the morning when breakfast is served. He's instructed the night staff to not breathe a word of it to any of the patients. The night staff doesn't deal with Trevor or any of the other patients, really, so they can't tell him. What do you think? You like the idea?"

Sherlock blinked slowly. "I can leave…"

"Yes."

"You did this for me."

"Yes," John nodded, still smiling.

Sherlock jumped from the bed and grabbed John's face in his hands, smashing their lips together. John jolted slightly in surprise but kissed back all the same. They parted with a small _pop. _Sherlock was grinning wildly.

John chuckled and cupped his cheek. "Now, Lestrade wants me to be with you during this, so my hours are changing."

Sherlock's grin faltered slightly.

"Don't make a face. My hours are from 9:00 until whenever you want to go back to your room."

"What will I do in the afternoon without you here? I'll be so _bored." _

"Yeah, but I'll be spending the night with you." He immediately regretted his wording. Sherlock could be so inappropriate sometimes. But then again, John wasn't much better. "Not like that!" he pinched Sherlock's cheek when Sherlock raised his eyebrow suggestively. "Listen, I'm going to go home for a little while. I'm starving and if I'm going to be with you tonight, I need a nap."

Sherlock pouted. "Fine."

"I'll be back tonight," John winked.

* * *

Watching Sherlock explore the facility for the first time in years was a sight to see. His sharp gaze scanned everything at once, a look of pure fascination on his peculiar features. It was sad, in a way, that he was excited by things that the others got to see every day. John wouldn't dwell on it too much, though. He didn't want Sherlock hearing.

Walking around at night was a little creepy, actually. Most of the lights were dimmed and John didn't know any of the night staff. But Sherlock had taken John's hand and dragged him quickly through the hallways yelling, "Come on, John!" He wore a manic smile on his face.

The library was heaven for him. He frantically went through every shelf to see the wide selection, tossing books to the floor left and right.

John laughed. "Calm down, Belle."

"Belle?" Sherlock asked distractedly.

"Belle. _Beauty and the Beast. _Forget it."

The library was the largest room in the entire building and did, indeed, resemble the Beast's library from the Disney movie. It had comfortable couches and armchairs everywhere. John sat down on a luxurious red char.

"Look at it all, John!" he spread his arms in glee. "This will keep me occupied for months!"

John smiled, enjoying the sight of his excited boyfriend. _Boyfriend? What are you, a teenager, John?_

Thankfully, Sherlock was far too preoccupied with the six books in his hands to have heard that little slip.

Sherlock and John spent nine nights straight in the library. During this time, Sherlock was far too interested in whatever he was reading to really talk to John at all. John wouldn't have minded, but his therapy sessions with Sherlock had practically been eliminated and replaced with this. He missed talking to Sherlock. He missed his laugh and the touch of his lips. Another problem was that Sherlock wouldn't return to his room until at least four in the morning and it was killing John's sleep schedule.

"Let's go somewhere different," John announced on the tenth night.

Sherlock frowned. "Why? There are still so many books I haven't read."

"You'll have forever to read those books."

"Not true, John."

"Let's go to the gardens."

"Why would I want to go _outside?"_

"Is outside a bad thing, or are you complaining for the sake of complaining?"

Sherlock grabbed his hand and muttered, "Fine, let's go."

The gardens were beautiful. The bright green grass looked blue in the moonlight and the water coming from the cherub's mouth on the large, stone fountain glittered. There were many different types of flowers scattered about. John couldn't name any of them, but he thought they looked nice. There were a few white marble benches scattered around with matching lamps shedding the only sources of light.

The pair took a seat in silence, staring up into the night sky. John was beginning to think how nice the night was—the late May air nice and warm with a gentle breeze and a full moon high in the sky—when John noticed Sherlock's silence.

"Whatcha thinking?" he nudged his shoulder.

Sherlock had his hands folded together, twiddling his thumbs. "I had forgotten," he voice was strangely hoarse, "what the spring air felt like, to have my skin warmed by weather rather than an artificial heater." He removed his socks and wiggled his toes in the grass. "It tickles," he commented.

If John weren't afraid of being caught, he would have kissed Sherlock mercilessly. He put his hand atop Sherlock's larger one instead. He didn't say a word, knowing it would only make Sherlock feel uncomfortable. He knew that for grazing his thumb over his hand was enough.

"Beautiful moon," John murmured.

"Mmm."

"Bit romantic."

Sherlock smiled. "Is it?"

"This is a very romantic setting. A beautiful garden under the moonlight on a warm, spring night? Romance novel material."

"Remind me not to read romance novels."

John laughed.

"By the way," Sherlock said quietly, "I heard what you thought a few nights ago."

That gave John an uneasy feeling. "What are you referring to?"

Sherlock looked away from the moon and to John. "Firstly, don't end your sentences with prepositions."

John nearly smacked him. "To what are you referring?" he revised his previous statement with a growl.

Sherlock smirked slightly. "You thought of me as your boyfriend. I don't mind."

Relief flooded through John. "Okay," he gave Sherlock's hand a light squeeze. "We're boyfriends. I'm in a relationship with my patient. Wow. Okay."

"Do keep your voice down. I can hear the thoughts of the maid just outside of here."

"Did she hear us?"

"No, but be cautious."

John let go of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock suddenly threw himself on the ground.

"Sherlock?" John's heart hammered as he jumped from the bench.

Sherlock, however, didn't have a random fainting spell as John suspected. He was lying in the grass with a soft smile. "Didn't mean to frighten you," he said, "but I've been waiting to do this since we got out here."

John chuckled and sat back on the bench. "Could have given me a warning."

Sherlock spread his arms and legs as if he were making a snow angel. "It kind of itches."

"You better shower when you get in."

"I know that. I take my personal hygiene very seriously, John."

That was true. Sherlock always smelled sweet, like some combination between lavender and vanilla (how he smelled like this since the only soap at the facility was standard, John didn't know).

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his hands behind his head. "The maid is gone. Everyone is inside."

"Is there a reason why you're telling me this?"

"I wanted you to lie with me," he said timidly.

John smiled and got down next to his boyfriend (that term would take some getting used to) on the cool grass. They laced their fingers together and stared into the dark sky.

Around 2:00 in the morning, John startled awake at the sound of a bird chirping a few feet away, perched on a bench. He lifted his head, momentarily disoriented, and then recognized the gardens. He discovered that his shoulder and arm were pinned down by a six-foot sleeping psychic.

Sherlock's head was resting on John's right shoulder and his arms were wrapped around John's tightly. His perfect lips were parted and his eyes were moving behind his lids in a dream. The moonlight cast a milky glow on Sherlock's skin. He was so gorgeous that John wanted to take a picture.

_Actually…_

John carefully removed his cell phone from his left jeans pocket and snapped a picture. It was slightly too dark, but John knew there was no way in hell that he could have turned the flash on his phone without Sherlock murdering him. Maybe it was a little bit creepy, but, he reasoned, he could now look at Sherlock during the day when he was at home.

John stared at his lovely man for a few moments before shaking Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey."

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched and his nuzzled into John's shoulder, mumbling.

John smiled fondly and shook him again. "Sher-lock," he called in a sing-song voice.

Sherlock made a grumpy groan and cracked open his eyes. "What?"

"We should go inside. I'm not sure how others would react to finding us cuddling in the grass."

Sherlock yawned and nodded. "Lead the way. Oh, and delete that picture you snapped of me."

* * *

The duo's nightly escapades were erasing much of Sherlock's more melancholy moods. He still insulted the staff and went into sulks, but he was becoming warmer. John knew that Sherlock would never fully understand social norms and feelings, but he really didn't care. As long as Sherlock tried, John decided, that was enough.

One night, Sherlock and John didn't return from the library until 5:00 in the morning. Sherlock found a book about Egyptian mummification and excitedly read to John until his voice began to croak from overuse and exhaustion. Both dead on their feet, they collapsed onto Sherlock's bed together without a second thought.

The couple would ever thank whatever omnipotent power there was that it was Mrs. Hudson who discovered them the next morning. She went in the room to bring Sherlock his breakfast and stopped in her tracks. Sherlock was clinging to John like he was a teddy bear and John's head was rested on his chest.

Mrs. Hudson stifled her gasp and quickly set the tray down on the bedside table to shut the door.

The click of the door roused John. He let out a little groan and nuzzled his nose in Sherlock's chest before lifting his head. For a second, he just stared up at Mrs. Hudson hazily. Reality crashed down on him and he jumped up, waking his bed partner in the process.

"Jesus!"

Sherlock whipped his head around. His eyes rested on her and he swallowed. "Oh. Hello."

"Boys," Mrs. Hudson sighed, "you really must be more careful!"

The pair blinked in unison.

"Wait," John rubbed his eyes, "you're not running to tell Lestrade?"

"Oh John, I've known that you two have been more than friends for months now."

She smiled when their jaws dropped. "It's really no mystery. Sherlock has been so happy now that you're here, John, and I'm not about to take that away."

Sherlock grinned and John laughed joyfully.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock took her hand, "you are a marvel." He kissed hand in a way that made John's chest warm.

She giggled. "Oh Sherlock, how far you've come." She crossed her arms and took on an authoritative tone. "Now, you two were lucky that it was me who walked in instead of that Sally Donovan. We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson," they chorused.

"You said that you've known about us for months," John said, "are we giving off any obvious signs?"

"No, not really. I've just got a sixth sense when it comes to love, that's all!"

Their hearts clenched at the mention of love. When Mrs. Hudson left, they agreed to not stay up past 3:00 in the morning to prevent John from sleeping in Sherlock's bed (much to the latter's disappointment).

* * *

As much as Sherlock loved the changed of scenery, there was an advantage to staying in his room with John: kissing.

Inside the library on Thursday night, John was sitting in an armchair with a lap full of Sherlock. John's face was being cradled by Sherlock's large hands, his thumbs occasionally swiping over John's cheeks as their kisses became more heated. Sherlock wondered how the hell he ever lived without this man for all those years—or better yet, how he ever thought that he was better off alone. _I'm an idiot, _Sherlock thought for the forty-seventh time since meeting John.

He wanted John to know how much he meant to him, but Sherlock couldn't even attempt to voice his sentiment without stammering and quickly squashing the idea. He tried to let John know through his kisses.

They parted for air and Sherlock felt the increasingly familiar bubble of arousal settle in his stomach. John's hair was sticking up from Sherlock's eager hands and his cheeks were painted pink. He felt John's growing arousal beneath him and heard him mentally scolding himself for his body's reaction. Sherlock grinned and moved to kiss him again when the doors to the library opened.

John pushed Sherlock off his lap and turned around in the chair to see who it was. When he saw that it was a janitor, John forced a polite smile and said, "Hello there."

The janitor grunted in response and began to pick up books that had been flung to the floor by Sherlock, not even looking at the pair.

John sighed in relief and helped Sherlock from the floor.

When they got back to his bedroom, they agreed not to get heated when outside of Sherlock's room.

So, about five days later, Sherlock was absolutely _starving _for a good snog.

"John, can we stay here tonight?" he asked two and a half weeks after their first nightly adventure.

"Sure, but why?" John closed the door behind him.

Sherlock quickly leapt from the bed with the speed of a cheetah and pinned John's hands above his head on the door behind him.

"Because I can do this," he whispered into his ear and nibbled on it.

John stifled a groan. "Yes, that's fine. I approve."

Sherlock playfully bit his way from John's earlobe to his jaw, biting down a little more forcefully and smiling when John let out a small grunt.

"Jeez, where'd you learn this?" John hissed.

"Books," Sherlock stated simply.

"Of course. I should have guessed," John tilted his head to the side. "Romance novels?"

"Mhmmm," he bit down harder, but not enough to really hurt or leave a mark.

"When did you read romance novels? I would have remembered that."

"I did it when you fell asleep in the chair a couple nights ago."

John chuckled and Sherlock felt the vibration against his lips. "Did you wait until I fell asleep to start reading?"

Sherlock lifted his head to smirk. "Maaaaaybe." He kissed John deeper and moved one hand from his wrist to his cheek.

John used his free hand to wrap it around Sherlock's neck. _Damn, he's a fast learner._

Sherlock pressed the length of his body against John's and—_oh god, there's his dick!_

Lust hit John like a brick and he growled, sucking Sherlock's plump bottom lip into his mouth. Sherlock moaned and pressed himself even closer, leaving no space between them.

He nipped and sucked the infuriatingly plush lips lightly with his teeth, his cock twitching at Sherlock's deep moan.

"Sherlock," he said breathlessly, "quiet down a little."

"No one can hear. Everyone's sleeping."

"Still," John kissed him again. "Are you okay, not overwhelmed?"

Sherlock tugged on John's collar. "Bed. Now."

Well, okay then.

As they fell on the cool sheets, John on his back, their tongues fought for dominance in their kiss. Sherlock won. John couldn't stop himself from bucking his hips up against Sherlock's. Sherlock inhaled sharply and lifted his hips for a moment, then hesitantly lowered them.

John bucked up again and rubbed his clothed, growing erection against Sherlock's. Sherlock broke the kiss and gasped.

"You okay?" John's chest quickly rose and fell with his breaths.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course I am." He was starting to realize that experiencing was very different from reading. But it was a good different.

"It's okay not to be okay," John told him.

"I know that," he snapped due to, John understood, his nerves.

"Do you want me to do it again?"

Silence followed by an averted gaze.

_Don't shut me out now, _John didn't bother to voice his thought.

Sherlock looked back at him, his gaze softening. "Yes, okay," he breathed.

John rubbed his erection against Sherlock's and felt his shaft growing stiffer. John set a slow rhythmic thrust of his hips, his own erection now pressing painfully against his jeans. Sherlock moved his hands to John's shoulders and gripped them tightly. Sherlock was noticeably trying to stifle his groans.

John slowed his thrusts to a pause. "Sure you're okay?"

Sherlock let out a small whimper and finally started to move his hips against John with a nod. "Yes, yes, keep going, will you?"

That small whimper broke John's control. He flipped Sherlock onto his back and attacked his long neck with hunger.

"John, you're going to leave a mark." He didn't seem too worried about this.

"Mmm," was all John said as he nipped under Sherlock's jaw.

"It'll…arouse suspicion."

_It'll arouse more than suspicion_.

Sherlock slapped him on the arse for that. "Bad boy."

John chuckled and stopped assaulting Sherlock's neck. The beautiful friction their thrusts were creating was bliss. John tugged at the hem of Sherlock T-shirt. Sherlock nodded to his silent question and then his shirt was off, John removing his jumper and undershirt as well. John had seen Sherlock shirtless before, but now he could actually run his hands over the warm skin of the porcelain chest. John lowered his head to dart his tongue out at a rosy nipple. Sherlock gasped and clamped his hand over his mouth. John closed his mouth around the bud and sucked gently. Sherlock's moan was muffled by his hand.

"John," he whined when he moved his hand, "I need…I need something."

_How cute._

"John, don't mock me!"

"Sorry," he chuckled, "I can't control what pops into my head. It's endearing, anyway." His left thumb rubbed over Sherlock's nipple. "So sensitive." He stopped moving his hips. "Do you need release?"

Sherlock nodded mutely.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes," he grinded his hips in frustration, "just make it quick."

"You sound like you don't want it."

Sherlock turned his face into the pillow. "I do, but I'm afraid. I haven't really felt like this before, not even with Victor."

"Haven't you ever been aroused?"

Sherlock still had his face partially hidden in the pillow. "Of course, I am human. However, it only due to morning wood and such. Victor never made me feel like this."

"I see. Have you ever masturbated?"

"Sometimes, yes. Shouldn't we have this conversation later?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, you're right." He slid his hand down Sherlock's pajama pants to rub the delightful bulge there. Sherlock's moan was deep in his chest. "You like that?"

Sherlock nodded, his cheeks burning.

"Remember that you can stop me whenever you want to."

"I will murder you if you don't shut up."

John pulled Sherlock's pants down to his thighs along with his underwear to reveal his long, rosy cock.

John's own erection was begging to be released from its confines.

Sherlock reached down and unzipped John's jeans. "Better?"

John sighed in relief, "Better." He shucked his jeans and underwear off. He felt a little self-conscious upon realizing that Sherlock was longer than him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your size is perfectly proportionate to your body, John." He stared down. "It's quite lovely."

None of his partners had ever referred to his cock as _lovely. _It was kind of odd, kind of funny, and fully Sherlockian. John cleared his throat, "Uh, thanks."

To try to clear the awkwardness, John grasped Sherlock's prick and used feather-light strokes. He watched Sherlock's mouth fall open and his eyes grow hazy with lust. He tightened his grip and started to pump a little more firmly.

"Nnngh," Sherlock hid his face in the pillow again (whether it was out of embarrassment or to muffle his sounds of pleasure, John didn't know). John twisted slightly as he stroked up and ran his thumb over the head, smearing pre-come, and Sherlock threw his head back with a loud groan.

_Fuck, I hope no one heard that. _John started to stroke himself, sensing that Sherlock was a little too preoccupied to notice that John's cock was aching from neglect.

Sherlock had his arm thrown over his eyes. "Look at me," John softly commanded.

Sherlock shook his head.

John ran his thumb over the head again, "I said _look at me, _Sherlock."

Sherlock bit his arm and grunted, then obeyed John's command.

John kissed his cheek and let go of Sherlock's prick to pull him into his lap. "Wrap your legs around me," John said.

Sherlock did what he was told and also wrapped his arms around John's neck. "Kiss." That was meant to be a command, but it came out softer than Sherlock liked.

John smiled and kissed him softly.

The new angle allowed John to grasp his and Sherlock's cocks in his hand and rub them together. They moaned at the contact and John began to stroke and thrust into the air.

Sherlock's perfect lips were wet and opened in a heart shape and his fringe clung to his forehead. It would be no exaggeration if John said he had to look away to prevent himself from coming. Crap, when was the last time he had sex?

"John, you know that I n-never did this thing…"

"I know." The maddening pleasure was building by the second. He wasn't going to last much longer. John bowed his head on Sherlock's shoulder and grunted, "I know, Sherlock."

Sherlock moved his arms to wrap around John's back and began to thrust in the tight hold of John's hand.

"Oh, fuck yes," John moaned into the pale shoulder. "Let go."

He let out a small cry. "Oh Christ, it feels so good," Sherlock was clinging to John as if his life depended on it. His eyes were nearly black with desire and he started to thrust faster in John's hand, gaining some confidence. "So good…My John, so perfect…Y'know how gorgeous you look right now?"

John shivered. Sherlock moved to whisper in his ear, _"Mon précieux." _That was all John could take. He muffled his shout in Sherlock's shoulder as hot streams of come covered his hand and Sherlock's chest. His hips thrust clumsily as he rode out his orgasm, his free hand reaching to tightly grasp Sherlock's. "Oh, Sherlock," he groaned.

Sherlock sucked in a breath that resembled a sob. "Jooohn!"

He must have been closer than John thought because he gave a cry into John's neck and came, his whole body shaking violently. John held Sherlock tightly against his chest, "It's all right. Breathe," he panted, still coming down from the high. He lowered them down onto the sheets and stroked the pale, sweaty back gently. He could feel Sherlock's violent heartbeat against his own.

Sherlock took deep breaths and turned into a relaxed puddle in John's arms. He kissed the closest thing to his lips—the side of John's neck—and hummed contentedly.

After catching their breath and lying in each other's arms for several minutes, John caressed Sherlock's cheekbone. "So what was that, French?"

"Hm?" he didn't open his eyes. "Oh, yes. Mummy spoke French. Mycroft and I speak it fluently. I didn't know it would have such an effect on you."

John flushed. "That's news to me, too." He gently moved Sherlock's body onto the mattress and sat up. "We have to do something about this mess."

Sherlock tiredly waved a hand. "Don't have to. I'll just say I masturbated."

"This is an awful lot to have come from one person."

"Only a little has gotten on the bed and me. It's a suitable amount to have come from one person. Besides, I sleep naked, so finding me like this shouldn't be a total surprise." He pulled John back down to his chest.

John propped himself up on his elbows and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Didn't you feel overwhelmed by that?"

"Hm, a little. But it's you."

John smiled a little. When he felt his eyelids begin to droop he said, "I should go."

Sherlock frowned. "Now?"

John checked his watch which had somehow stayed on during that whole endeavor. "It's 11:30."

"You've stayed longer."

"Yeah, but if I fall asleep in bed with you and someone finds us _both _soiled with semen, that will be the definition of suspicious."

Sherlock pouted. "A little longer. Please."

John sighed. "Just a few minutes, Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed a kiss John's shoulder and closed his eyes. It was hard to resist the urge to snuggle against Sherlock's chest and let his heartbeat lull him into a deep sleep. John blinked his eyes rapidly. No. He couldn't.

He noticed that Sherlock's breathing was deep and that his features were completely relaxed. "Sherlock?"

No answer.

John smiled. He would be the type to fall asleep not three minutes after sex.

John carefully moved out of his embrace and covered him up with the sheet. He stood up and dressed himself. He swept a damp curl from Sherlock's forehead. "Goodnight."

As John was driving home, he wondered how the hell he ever wound up having sex with his patient.

* * *

John could feel the eyes of Anderson on him the next morning. _Shit. Stay calm. He doesn't suspect anything._

"John."

Shit.

Anderson walked over. "You were with Holmes last night, right?"

"Yeah." Keep calm, John.

"Well when I went into his room this morning," his ratty features scrunched up in disgust, "there were….bodily fluids….on him."

He tried to act dumb. "Bodily fluids? You mean, like, urine?"

"No, no, even worse...semen."

John wasn't sure if it were fair to consider semen worse than urine. He felt his pulse beat against his neck. "Semen? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." He crossed his arms. "Holmes never did anything like that before. Hell, I didn't believe he was capable of it. Do you know anything about this?"

Fuuuuuuck. "No, mate. I knocked on his door last night and he told me to go away. I went in his room and he refused to look at me. He was curled up under his sheet. I left a few minutes after. I supposed he wasn't in the mood for company. Now I see why, if that's what he did when I left." He was surprised to have concocted a story so quickly.

Anderson eyed him. "I guess even that thing has urges. " He concluded and then shuddered, "Ugh. I don't want to think about it. Thanks for clearing things up."

As he walked away, John released a breath he had been holding. That was close.

"You couldn't clean yourself up before Anderson came in?" John crossed his arms in irritation.

"I was asleep when he came in," Sherlock defended, "what did you want me to do?"

"Look," he sighed, "that was close. Too close."

Sherlock looked down at his feet. "So, I suppose we can't do it again, then?"

John sat down on the bed with him. "Not necessarily. I guess we'll just have to be more careful. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded and gave him a quick peck to the cheek. He stood up, "Come on, I want to go to the library. They have books about bees, John."

Sherlock said that like it was amazing news. "Er, okay."

"Bees, John!" he insisted. "Bees!"

"Yes, I get the concept of bees! Why do you want to read about bees so much?"

"I like bees."

Sherlock was rambling about bees while they were walking to the library. John wasn't especially interested, but seeing Sherlock so excited about something was always amusing.

Before they entered the library, Sherlock abruptly fell silent and stopped walking.

"What is it?' John asked.

Sherlock gripped John's hand tightly. "He's in there, John. He knows we're out here."

"He?"

Sherlock let go of John's hand. He pushed open the library's doors and strode inside. John followed was surprised to see that a patient (he could tell by the man's clothes) was already there. Sherlock was still beside him.

The man was around the height of Sherlock with the same colored hair, but it was straight and short like John's. His tanned skin and strong jaw made him handsome enough that, if John were not committed to Sherlock, his bisexual tendencies would have sparked with interest.

"Um, hello," John greeted awkwardly, "and what are you doing out of your room at this hour?"

"I can ask him the same thing," he said in a melodic voice and nodded to Sherlock.

"Yeah, well, he's with me and allowed to be here. How did you even get out of your room?"

He ignored John. "Sherlock, won't you introduce me to your new boyfriend?" His tone held a politeness that made John want to punch him in the face.

"How did you find out?" Sherlock asked with a tone John couldn't quite decipher.

"I don't understand," John admitted.

"That isn't surprising," the man commented.

John, for a moment, was stunned. He was about to defend himself but Sherlock beat him to it. "Don't talk about John that way."

The man looked disappointed with himself. "I'm sorry," he said to John, "I haven't introduced myself." He smiled and his white teeth sparkled, "I'm Victor Trevor, Sherlock's ex."

John's heart stopped. He was standing in front of the very prick that locked up his poor Sherlock.

Trevor, all smiles, said, "Your angry thoughts amuse me."

"What do you want? Hm?" John clenched his fists. "Are you angry that Sherlock can walk around here like everyone else?"

"Oh no," he shook his head. "The whole thing about Sherlock not being able to leave his room was just a little bonus. I'm angry that he's cheating on me."

"Victor," Sherlock's voice was the coldest John had ever heard, which was saying a lot considered how much he loathed John at first, "I made it perfectly clear that I want nothing to do with you."

"Yes, I remember. You should also remember that I didn't like that very much."

John stepped in front of Sherlock. "If you dare to lay a hand on him again-"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Doctor Watson," he scoffed. "Well, at least not with you here. I just need to make sure you stay away from him. Do you know that I used to kiss him in this very room?"

Sherlock spoke, "How did you even know that we're involved?"

"Anderson, of course. What? Don't act surprised. The man hates you more than Donovan."

"He told you?"

"Nope, he was thinking about it as he walked by my room."

John paled. "Anderson knows?"

"He has his suspicions." His expression lost its feigned cheerfulness and turned dark. "To think that you, the blushing virgin, gave yourself to _him_," he pointed to John, "makes me sick.

John moved to punch Trevor in the face, but Sherlock caught his arm. "Victor, leave John out of this." His tone suddenly dropped all emotion. "Better yet, stop succumbing to sentiment—or rather, obsession—and continue to live your pathetic life without bothering us."

John had forgotten how hurtful this Sherlock could be. "I can and will report to Lestrade that you were out of your room at night," warned John.

"You think that will actually mean anything?"

_No. _

It took John a second to realize that Sherlock was no longer beside him, but standing only a foot away from Victor.

"You do realize that the more you do this the more I'm repulsed by you?" he spoke in a dangerous growl.

"You do realize that I hate John the more he spends time with you?" His hazel eyes narrowed.

"Do _not _harm John."

"You're cute when you're angry."

"That's it," John cut in and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "We're out of here. Trevor, I don't want to see you again."

He tugged Sherlock out of the room before anymore could be said. Their retreat to Sherlock's room was spent in silence, John gripping his boyfriend's hand almost painfully.

"That arsehole," John forced his voice to stay at a low volume in fear of waking those in the surrounding rooms. He flopped down on Sherlock's bed. "That fucking arsehole."

Sherlock was pacing. "A confrontation isn't enough. He's going to do something else."

"He implied that he's going to touch you when I'm not around." The thought nearly brought up bile.

"I'm not concerned about that," he tugged at his curls in frustration. "He'll do something to you. That much is clear. In his mind, you're his competition." He stood still. "I don't want him to hurt you, John."

"I know, Sherlock," he sighed. "I don't care what he plans to do. It's not going to keep me from seeing you."

"It will if it costs you your job."

John sat against the headboard. "Come here." Sherlock stared at him for a moment, took a little step forward, and then crawled into John's lap. His hesitancy always amused John. "We'll figure something out, okay?"

Sherlock said nothing.

"Whatever you're thinking," John murmured, "stop it." He buried his nose in the silky curls. "If he hurts you again, God, I don't know what I'll do."

Sherlock buried his face in John's chest and savored the warmth he found there, fearing it would be one of the last times he could do so. He felt John's steady heartbeat under his cheek. His mind floated around for ideas and screeched to a halt when he found one. He sat up so abruptly that he nearly toppled John over.

"John, will you send a letter for me?"

"That's pretty random, but sure. Do you have paper and a pen?"

Sherlock reached under his bed and pulled out a cardboard box. Inside, there were numerous envelopes which contained, John could only assume, letters from Sherlock's mysterious brother. Sherlock took out a pen and blank piece of paper from the bottom of the box. He leaned the paper on the bedside table and scribbled furiously. Within a couple minutes he was finished and gave it to John after stuffing it in an envelope.

"Drop it in the mailbox before you leave. Don't ask questions. Don't read it."

John nodded. "Okay then. Sure."

Sherlock relaxed and curled up next to John. "Good."

"You don't seem very worried anymore," John observed.

"I'm not."

"Why?"

"Did I not just say to refrain from asking questions?"

"Okay, okay, sorry."

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John's thigh with his nose.

John swatted Sherlock's shoulder with the envelope. "That tickles."

"As much as I love you being here, you seem exhausted."

"Are you kicking me out?"

"Maybe, but only because I want you to mail that."

John lifted Sherlock's hand and kissed his knuckles. "Yes, bossy."

* * *

John's stomach dropped when Lestrade called him to his office the very next day. "We should have known he would find out somehow," he remarked drily.

_Damn._ No clarification was needed. John cleared his throat."He told you?"

Lestrade nodded.

"Has he vowed to cut off funding?"

Lestrade nodded again.

"And what, his family will give money again if Sherlock is locked back up in his room?"

This time Lestrade shook his head. His tired eyes were full of sympathy. "It'll cost your job."

John took a deep breath and released it slowly. "That doesn't surprise me," he admitted. "I understand if this is my last day." Actually, he thought it was total bullshit that he was about to lose his job for such a ridiculous reason, but he would never voice that aloud. He did understand that Lestrade was in a tough spot.

"I don't want to fire you, John."

"I know."

"You've made Sherlock into a good man."

John's heart panged painfully. "I've only brought out what was already there."

"Look, we already got the money from his family for this month. I can let you keep your job for the rest of the month until we need the money again." He looked awfully guilty. "Also, it's best if you and Sherlock don't go anywhere during your sessions. I don't know how he was able to leave his room, but he'd probably do it again."

John nodded stiffly. "Okay."

He walked to Sherlock's room in a daze as reality set in. A month. Not even a month, actually. He had less than a month with Sherlock. He had only known the beautiful, infuriating madman for six months, and soon it would be time to say goodbye. Sherlock had changed his life around, removing his limp and giving him something to look forward to every day of the week. John never cared so deeply for someone before. He couldn't bear to lose him now. None of the girlfriends he had in high school or university could compare to Sherlock. Though, John reflected, no one could.

John barely noticed he was upstairs until he was opening Sherlock's door.

Sherlock regarded him casually. "John."

"Sherlock," he found his own voice raspy.

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes, but decided against it. "Don't be so upset, John. You won't be fired."

"And how the hell are you so sure?!"

"The letter, John, the letter," he insisted.

"Yes, this letter that you told me nothing about."

"Trust me, John. Do you trust me?"

"I do."

"Then you will have answers in due time." He got up from the bed and hugged John to his chest. "Trust me," he said again.

John wrapped his arms around the thin torso. "I," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "just don't want to lose you, Sherlock."

"I know." What Sherlock left unsaid was swimming in his crystal eyes. John gently stroked a pale cheekbone with his thumb and Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed, his brow furrowed. John caressed the brow into smoothness.

Sherlock met John's lips in a tender, heartfelt kiss, their chests pressed together so that they felt each other's heartbeats. It was a feeling that made them both lightheaded and ridiculously emotional. Sherlock held John tighter and deepened the kiss with a small groan. "John," he moved his kisses to John's neck, "I promise that we won't be apart." He sucked a spot under John's ear.

John gave a small groan and grabbed the firm cheeks of Sherlock's arse. "Whatever you're planning, it better work out." He kneaded the round globes. "I can't bear to be without you."

Sherlock smashed his lips against John's and lifted him off the ground into his arms.

"Wha-? Sherlock!" He punched Sherlock's shoulder. "Put me down!"

Sherlock chuckled richly. "But you fit so nicely in my arms."

John bit down on his clavicle, which caused Sherlock's knees to give out and ended with them crashing to the ground, John on top of Sherlock. They stared at each other, blinked, and burst into laughter.

John muffled his laughter with his hand. "Sherlock," he giggled, "we'll alert the whole floor!"

"Let them be alerted, I don't care."

John stood up and helped Sherlock to his feet. "You better know what you're doing."

"I do."

"When will this brilliant plan of yours commence?"

"Oh, within this week is my best bet. Lestrade said we can't leave the room?"

"Yes."

"And that you have until the rest of the month?"

"Yes."

"Then let us go on as if nothing happened."

That was easier said than done. Over the next few days, John's worry did not cease and Sherlock's nonchalance only irritated him. The other employees gave John sympathetic looks, especially Donovan, Anderson, Mary, and most of all Mrs. Hudson.

"Poor guy," John heard Donovan say, "I told him the Freak is nothing but trouble."

John didn't care enough to acknowledge her.

* * *

When John was lying in his bed that night, he looked to the right side of his bed and thought about how, in another life, Sherlock may have occupied the cold, empty space. The thought made his heart clench and his stomach knot. Feeling quite pathetic, he took the unused pillow and embraced it, forcing his mind to replace the sensation of the cold object with the warmth of Sherlock's body.

Little did he know that Sherlock often did the same.

* * *

It was a single day before he was supposed to be fired when John found Sherlock's hands shaking when he went to hold them.

"Sherlock!" he embraced his boyfriend on the bed. "What happened?"

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's jumper and hid his face in his neck. "Victor," he growled.

John immediately held Sherlock tighter. "What did he do?"

Sherlock adjusted himself so that he was secure in John's lap. "He tried again, John."

"To touch you?"

He nodded.

It took all of his strength to not run downstairs and beat Victor Trevor with a crowbar. "Tell me everything."

"It was in the lavatory. We were the only ones in there. I did my best to ignore him but he grabbed my arse to get my attention." His fingers tightened on the jumper. "When I finally looked at him, the miserable sod was just smirking. I tried to just walk away, but he pushed me down and tried to beat me. I was able to shove him off with minimal damage. He said," Sherlock barely contained a shudder, "that he owns me after today."

John was shaking with rage. "Where did he hurt you?" his voice sounded unfamiliar even to himself.

Sherlock looked at him with apprehension. He gently removed himself from the embrace and lifted his shirt to reveal bruises forming on his ribcage.

John then decided to fuck everything. Just, fuck it. It was his last day at the stupid fucking place, with his fucking gorgeous man, and his gorgeous man's brilliant fucking plan apparently hadn't worked, so he decided that he had about enough of stupid, fucking Victor Trevor.

Bounding off the bed and striding so quickly that Sherlock couldn't keep up with him, John went straight to Trevor's room to punch him in the face.

And he did.

Without giving the bastard a second to even register what was about to happen, John punched him harder than he ever punched anyone in his life, hearing a nice crack from the cock-muncher's jaw.

John didn't know how long he punched—it was all in a red haze of fury—when felt arms roughly tugging him away from the man fallen to the floor. When he was pulled from the room, he recognized the men holding him as Sherlock and Lestrade.

There was a small crowd gathered around that held a frowning, worried Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was trying to conceal that he was impressed and amused. Lestrade looked disappointed.

"In my office. Both of you," he said tiredly.

John and Sherlock obeyed. They shuffled to Lestrade's office as if they were children going to the principal.

To John's surprise, there was a posh-looking man already there.

Sherlock wasn't fazed.

The man was tall, perhaps an inch taller than Sherlock, with thinning reddish-brown hair and a rather large nose. He was wearing a suit and had a black umbrella in his hand.

Lestrade entered and raised his eyebrows. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, I didn't expect you to be here yet."

_Mr. Holmes?_

"I only just arrived," he smiled politely.

He shook hands with Lestrade. "Have they really caused trouble on their last day?" he asked with exasperation.

_**Their **__last day? _John was only getting more confused by the second.

Sherlock had his arms crossed petulantly, providing no assistance.

The man turned to John and held out his hand. "Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother."

Oh. That explained a lot. Actually, no. That made things more confusing. John shook his hand dumbly. "Right, hello. So why are you here?" More importantly, wasn't Mycroft a psychic? Wasn't this unsafe for him?

Sherlock chuckled lowly beside him. "Oh no, John, he conceals it well."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

Lestrade, ever a step behind everyone else, only raised an eyebrow. "Uh, all right then. John, didn't Sherlock tell you his brother was coming?"

"No," he glared at his partner.

"Should I have told you?" Sherlock asked with disinterest.

"Yes. Well, I don't know. I still don't know why he's here."

"Ah, yes," Mycroft shifted his weight on his umbrella. "The letter Sherlock recently sent was to me, explaining your situation and…arrangement."

John would swear he heard Sherlock growl at that.

"Arrangement?" Lestrade questioned.

Mycroft ignored him. "He thought that I would be able to help the two of you. All it took were some alterations to Sherlock's file and the government no longer recognizes him as a psychic. I made a call to Mr. Lestrade to come collect him, and here I am. Unfortunately, you will still lose your job, Doctor Watson, but Sherlock will be with you when you leave."

That took a few moments to process. All it took was paperwork. Just the name of Mycroft Holmes saying that Sherlock wasn't a psychic. That was it. Seriously?

"Mycroft's name can open doors," offered Sherlock. "He's the British government."

"Oh, please," he scoffed, "I occupy a minor position-"

"He's the real-life version of Big Brother."

The brothers glared at each other. John found their relationship strangely sweet.

Sherlock and Mycroft shot daggers at John for that.

Lestrade, again, didn't know what was going on.

The reality of what Mycroft had said was beginning to sink in and a smile slowly spread on John's face. "So, Sherlock can leave."

"Yes," nodded Mycroft.

"And never return?"

"Yes," he gave a look that said _are you really this daft?_

John would have been offended if it had come from anyone but a Holmes. A bubble of joy built up in his chest. He turned to see that Sherlock was smiling, too, but not as excitedly as John. He probably anticipated this outcome. That would explain his recent behavior.

"Let me clear something up," Lestrade addressed Sherlock and John, "you two? Really?"

The pair looked down at the ground.

"Maybe," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade stared at them for a moment, blinked, and then chuckled heartily. "You know, it's not much of a surprise. John, even if you had a slim chance of keeping your job, I'm afraid it's lost now."

John laughed, "Oh, I know that. It doesn't matter. I don't want to be under the same roof as Trevor anymore."

"Speaking of which," spoke Mycroft, "I was going to give you the whole 'hurt my brother and you'll end up in a prison in Siberia' speech, but considering what you have done for him, I don't believe I have to worry."

If John were to receive anything remotely resembling approval from Mycroft, that would be it. "I'm glad we understand each other. Mr. Holmes-"

"Mycroft, please."

"Right. Mycroft, where will Sherlock go?"

"My brother had often expressed to me through his letters that he longed for life in London. He enjoyed the energy when he was a child. I picked out a nice little flat on Baker Street."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "You didn't tell me that."

"Well, now you know."

Sherlock was failing to stop the bright smile on his face. "And John? Can he stay with me?"

"Oh, I've already sold his flat and moved his belongings to Baker Street."

"What?!" John was flabbergasted. "You can't just do that!"

"But it will be wonderful, John!" Sherlock gripped his smaller hands in his own. "You, me, alone—think about it!"

John wasn't very keen on the idea of his freaking flat being sold without his permission, but if he were going to be with Sherlock, well, that changed things.

Mycroft checked his wristwatch. "I expect the two of you to be outside in twenty minutes. There is a car waiting. Say your goodbyes, Sherlock, if you have any. The same applies to you, Doctor."

Sherlock and John said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. She hugged them tightly. "You better call sometime, you two," she said tearfully. They promised they would. There was no doubt that they would miss her motherly touch in their lives. "And make sure," she added, "that I'm invited to your future wedding."

They blushed furiously.

Much to the disapproval of Sherlock, John said goodbye to Mary Sherlock was fuming when they hugged.

"I knew it," she smiled. "In another life, I think we could have had a chance, but I'm happy for you. Really."

Sherlock silently thought that wasn't very appropriate to say, but he just growled to himself and decided that he would wait for John at the car.

When they were children, it was rare for Mycroft and Sherlock to voice their conversations. Talking was too tedious for them when they could easily send a message telepathically.

Mycroft started the conversation. _Why did you pick John Watson, out of all people?_

_Problem?_

_No, I'm only curious._

_Because he's _John. _That's why._

_Feeling articulate today, aren't we?_

_Shut up. You're only jealous that I've found a partner while you drown your sorrows in pastries. _

Mycroft looked like he was planning his murder when Lestrade approached them. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before he brought Sherlock into his arms.

Sherlock was surprised by the gesture and Lestrade knew it. He was a bit too stunned to hug back and, honestly, he wasn't sure if he would act differently if he knew what was coming. Only John Watson could touch him like that, Sherlock concluded, though Graham Lestrade wasn't so bad. "Yeah, this isn't your area, I know," Lestrade said. "It isn't really mine, either. Just, stay out of trouble, okay?"

Sherlock kept his arms by his side. "Of course, Graham."

"Graham?" he pulled back. "It's Greg."

"Is it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be so ignorant, Sherlock."

Lestrade seemed exasperated, but did smile. "Well, farewell, Sherlock. Your presence will be missed."

"That's a lie," Sherlock scoffed.

"Well it will be missed by me. Mr. Holmes," he shook Mycroft's hand, "it's been a pleasure."

"The pleasure's all mine," he grinned.

John approached and Lestrade gave him a quick hug. "John, I don't think we've had a better man here."

"Thanks, Greg, for dealing with our crap."

"Hurry up!" Sherlock snapped and stomped over to the car and jumped in.

Lestrade laughed. "He never changes, does he?"

"No, but I wouldn't have him any other way."

Mycroft looked disgusted by all of the emotion in the air. "Ready to go?"

"No messing around back there," he told them when John settled in the backseat next to Sherlock.

Sherlock growled, which John found incredibly sexy, and then hid his face in his hands when he realized that both Sherlock and Mycroft knew it.

_Fucking psychics, _he thought, and they smiled. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder and stared out the window. They watched the facility fade into the distance, and a happy sigh escaped Sherlock's lips.

* * *

_Epilogue_

"Sherlock!" John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you that I was more than happy to let you indulge in your experiments, but not if there is a bloody _toe _in the kettle!"

Sherlock, who was watching crap telly in his dressing gown on the sofa, looked up with innocence. "How did that get there?"

John groaned and went back to the kitchen to dump the toe into the trash.

"John!" Sherlock looked horrified. "I needed that toe!"

"Too bad!" John called back. Really. A toe.

"Where did you even get the toe?"

"A pathologist down at Bart's morgue fancies me. She lets me take body parts."

"Sherlock," John sighed as he sat down on the sofa next to his boyfriend, "it isn't very nice to manipulate people."

"Oh, I told her that I'm quite committed. She's still attracted to me, however, so why shouldn't I take advantage?"

"You're awful," John rolled his eyes and kissed his cheek. "You told her that you're in a relationship? She couldn't have taken that very well."

"She was a tad upset, but a rather smart girl. She'll get over it." Sherlock glanced away from whatever show he was watching to look at John, and then wrapped his arms around John's middle and kissed his collarbone peeking from his jumper. "Poor girl didn't know that I've been claimed by the most handsome, caring, amazing man-"

"You're doing this because you know I'm still angry with you for using that girl, aren't you?"

"Maaaaybe. But that doesn't make what I say untrue."

John chuckled and pinned Sherlock down onto the cushions, enjoying the look of surprise on his face. "You prat," he slowly moved his fingers up Sherlock's thigh to his groin. "It's wonderful now, isn't it, that we can be as loud as we want? That," he cupped Sherlock's growing erection through the fabric of his trousers, "we won't get caught?"

Sherlock was breathing heavily and he smirked. "Indeed. You can fuck me into the mattress and make me scream as much as you want."

John growled and attacked his lips.

All was resolved, all was well, and Sherlock and John would prove to keep their word; two years later, they invited Mrs. Hudson to their wedding.

* * *

**Hooray for happy endings! Well, I hope you enjoyed this story, because I really liked writing this.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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